Phases of Emotion
by samurai-ashes
Summary: ...it seemed to him that mirrors weren't the inanimate objective looking-glasses ... but rather seers, showing a person the inner-depths of his soul, forcing the viewer to face what he hid away from the world." [Jounouchi : angst,sexual themes]


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ashes does not own Yu-Gi-Oh!, these characters, or anything else that would be anywhere near related to ownership. This is not for profit, only fan entertainment purposes.

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**- character - **  
Jounouchi 

**- author says... -**  
This story is closet-yaoi; we're thinking it, but no one's really saying it. XD So, whoever it was Jounouchi was thinking about… it really all up to you. Have fun. Great thanks to Hanachan for letting me bully her into proofreading it for me. *heart* This is another written-and-posted-in-one-nighter, but at least it got looked over first. ^^ 

**- warnings -**  
angst... and then some more angst... and for a change of pace, some angst. Oh, yea, and sexual themes. 

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First, Jounouchi was sad. He was leaning over the bathroom counter wearily, bent so far forward that his head was in the empty sink. His lithe frame shook with sobs. The noise echoed off the walls of the small room, and the sound seemed to mock him, filling his ears with his own weakness, supporting every feeling of worthlessness and self-hatred that he tried so hard to ignore. 

The shower was still running; the water was too hot, and it was getting harder to breathe as the steam invaded his lungs; his breathing was shallow. It had started in the shower: before he was sad, he was aroused. It was as he was pleasing himself, his hand moving deftly along his cock, that he felt the first pang of sadness: he realized how pathetic he was, alone in the bathroom, no one to take care of him, to make him feel better. He ignored it, but it only intensified as he tried to push it to the back of his mind, trying to conjure images to help hurry along his satisfaction. With this imagery came a mocking voice. 

_Makes you feel like a man, huh, Jounouchi? Makes you feel good: all alone, beating off in the shower pretending there's someone here with you? Yea, you're special; you can take care of yourself. It's shame that's only a façade._

That was when Jounouchi crumbled, arousal forgotten, and he slipped down onto the tub floor. The first streams of tears ran down his face and the water from the showerhead beat down on his head. He had reached forward violently, turning the water up. After all, the shower was a clever and secretive form of self-mutilation: turn it up hot enough to sting, but not enough to cause physical harm. Usually it worked, usually it made Jounouchi forget his sorrows, forget the pains he hid in the bottom of his heart. It didn't though, and he couldn't bear the heat. That was when he had gone to the bathroom counter, when he had leaned, when he had let those first tears turn to weeping. 

He looked up at the mirror slowly. The glass was so fogged up that Jounouchi didn't see himself, but a foggy distortion of himself. He liked it better that way: it seemed to him that mirrors weren't the inanimate objective looking-glasses that every treated them to be but rather seers, showing a person the inner-depths of his soul, forcing the viewer to face what he hid away from the world. 

Jounouchi hated the mirror, and his sadness turned to anger. 

What sort of man was he, wallowing alone in the bathroom like a heartbroken schoolgirl? So what if he lacked love, lacked someone to hold him: he had devoted friends, and that was more than he had ever expected. When had he become so greedy that he wanted love as well? Jounouchi glared at himself, ignoring the tears that were still burning his eyes, forgetting the steam that made his chest tighten. How pitiful he was; he needed his ass kicked, he deserved it. On that impulse he hit the mirror, trying to strike himself: the mirror cracked, but it didn't fall. Jounouchi was forced to see the distortion in his image grow; on top of being foggy, it was multi-facetted. It looked like something people tried to pass off as "modern art." Somehow, it seemed to Jounouchi that the mirror held more truth when it was shattered; it was more symbolic. 

Jounouchi became nauseas. He went the toilet, falling to his knees before the porcelain seat, and he vomited. He was sure he lost more than just food; Jounouchi felt like his very soul, every ounce of energy that he possessed, left him then and he was left world-weary. He fell back against the wall, breathing heavily. The water was still running. That was wasteful… and costly. 

Jounouchi reached for his towel and wrapped it tightly around his shoulders; it was tight, was almost vice-like: if he closed his eyes, he could pretend there was someone holding him. So he did. 

The water was still falling against the bathtub floor, the beat steady and almost soothing. Jounouchi let it be, let it lull him; it was just another bill to pay. 

-end-


End file.
